Without Beginning, Without End
by lalunaticscribe
Summary: Lara Raith's husband is murdered, she's a White Court vampire, and all the evidence points against her. Despite all that, she didn't do it, and Holmes steps in, with wizard in tow. Whodunit? Slight Xover with Dresden Files. 2nd in the Watson Chronicles.
1. He nods at Things being Begun

_**I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion - I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more - I could be martyred for my religion - Love is my religion - I could die for that. **_

_**~by John Keats **_

* * *

_**Without Beginning, Without End**_

_**Being the continuation of the story of one detective's and one wizard's adventures**_

_**Prologue: He nods at things being begun**_

Never let it be said that night in London, be it the East or West End, by the river or on the city edges, is romantic. It would have been said that night was a dark and stormy one, not for the sake of tradition mind you, but for the sake of truth, indeed. The gloomy mood and the darkness that the summer storm brought was reflected in the dark, dank alleys of Shoreditch as two men skulked down it, one from the right end, one from the left end, each accompanied with a small entourage of men wearing the distinct policeman's cap and holding a truncheon or revolver, both groups moving towards a wide wooden set of double-doors set into the wall, the sounds of a quiet night all around them; the barks of dogs, the squalling of an infant, a silent moan of a perhaps too-enthusiastic couple.

The man from the right end notices that the entourage on his compatriot's side being a mite further away from the lead compared to his entourage, but chooses not to comment on it. This man, if any half-light in the dark alley permitted, would have been revealed to possess hawk-like features, an aquiline nose, thin, sallow cheeks, a strong chin, and black hair closely cropped to his scalp as befitted a gentleman in that summer of 1899, all these framing a pair of stormy blue-grey eyes closer to the shade of steel, wrapped in a dapper suit of black. This man was an extraordinary man, as testified by his exploits written by his faithful chronicler and friend. He was the great detective, the pioneer of the art of detection, the one who made detection from an art down to a science. He was Sherlock Holmes.

The man opposite him, the one whom the Metropolitan constables seemed to avoid, was what could only be the epitome of the typical Englishman, or Scotsman, if you wished to be technical about it. Brown hair, brown eyes, moustache, skin just slightly darker than usual, a tan faded to something closer to the typical English but still something of a hot sun certainly not found in England about it, slight limp in left shoulder and leg, dressed in a shirt and khaki trousers . The only unusual thing about him was the walking cane carved with several odd patterns or swirls and runes with some set in metals that gleamed slightly in what little light there was he held. This man was Doctor John Watson, and if the constables seemed to avoid the cane more than the person holding it, Holmes didn't comment.

"Remind me why we have to deal with this with Langtry out of town?" Holmes demanded angrily.

"Duty, for the sake of London, etcetera, we've been through this Holmes, you wanted to pull the authorities into it!" Watson hissed back, drawing his revolver and cocking it. "I go first; he might have...measures at the door." The look on almost every face present was one of agreement.

"Gentlemen, we are here to take down the culprit of the murder of five innocent children spread throughout the City," Holmes informed all present. "He is presumably backed by members of his...cult, so to speak, and they might be armed with knives and dangerous. As we speak, they are intending to possibly ritually murder three more children." He spat the last word with disgust. "That is our current situation. We have established that there is only one entrance in this building and that currently, all members of his...cult, or coven as he calls it, are present. The only silver lining is that they have no firearms. So, the plan is to charge in and subdue all present. Is that clear?"

They all nodded. Holmes clapped his hands. "Excellent! Now then, let's begin."

With a loud _bang, _the double doors flew open, and the constables poured in, guns drawn, with Watson leading the fray. There was a scream of defiance from one of the room's occupants as they paused, one of them holding a rusty knife poised over the heart of a sobbing girl, soon-to-be victim.

"Edwin McKinley, you are arrested for the murders of two boys and two girls, drop the knife!" Holmes bellowed, gun aimed at them.

McKinley grinned, waving a hand. "Get them, my servants!" He groaned.

Four men and women stood up, their postures oddly feral, their faces equally so, contorted into expressions of pure rage and bloodlust, all but leaping towards the entourage of constables, ignoring the threats posed by shillelaghs and revolvers. The shouts almost turned into screams as the four went for the throat, growling for blood. Even as rounds emptied into their bodies, the four still stood, slowly suffocating their prey.

"Very clever, hide the demons in human bodies instead of getting them to conjure a form, at least we now know how they managed to escape scrutiny for so long," Holmes muttered, quickly dragging a stick behind him as the four stood, still strangling their victims. Behind him, Watson batted the knife out of McKinley's hand and delivered a serious left hook that had the receiver sprawling struggling to get away. The prospective victim took one look at the scene, screamed, and fled once Watson had released the ropes that had tethered her.

Holmes had just finished drawing the pattern of a circle before he was knocked and was faced with McKinley and the rusty knife. "Oh, so you're one of us, eh?" McKinley leered, shaking the knife in Holmes's direction. "On top of all your talents, you're one of the wise too, Mr Holmes?" Thankfully most attention was drawn to the four servants who were currently choking the life out of eight of them.

"You misunderstand, McKinley," Holmes told him. "After all, it doesn't take a wizard to create a circle. But then again, you aren't a wizard, are you? You broke the laws that wizards are sworn to uphold. Although a lawyer would argue that you're in a grey area of the First Law, you are a serial murderer in the eyes of the court."

"Why would I bother about petty mortal laws, Mr Holmes?" McKinley laughed, in a voice that belied exactly how insane the man had become. "I would kill you, and every other policeman, and even your nice but idiotically suicidal friend over there, with my nice servants. How can you ordinary mortals expect to stand up against me?"

"You have made two grave mistakes," Holmes pointed out. "The first is to assume that just because I am not a wizard, that there is no wizard in our group."

Then, the four servants abruptly stiffened before keeling over, dead, taking down the entire crowd desperately attempting to pry now pliant fingers from throats. McKinley choked as he felt the energy flow cut off.

"The second," and here Holmes allowed himself to smile evilly, "is to assume that Watson is idiotically suicidal."

It was then that Watson's cane connected with McKinley's midriff and there was a flash of light as the man was thrown across the length of the room, a full twenty feet, and connect with the wall with a solid _thump _and the sounds of several bones breaking. McKinley gave a muffled _oof_ and collapsed face-down upon the dirty floor.

"You," Watson grated, the carvings on his cane glowing a scarlet light. "Are the reason why we have such a bad name. _Alligo._"

McKinley's jaw locked into place and his entire body began to perform a passable imitation of tetanus as the constables managed to release their brethren from the clutches of the new corpses, oblivious to anything amiss going on from the detective and his partner.

"Well then, business as usual, the criminal is caught, and we can breathe a sigh of relief that none present save for us noticed what we did," Holmes sighed, picking up his hat which had fallen from the ground. "Some music, a good book, Watson? Let us now leave the constables to their work."

Watson stifled a barely concealed flinch from the sidelong looks he was getting and got into step beside his best friend, and the two, arm in arm, headed back to their shared, infamous address of 221B Baker Street.

* * *

**From the Notes of Sherlock Holmes Esq.**

**Dated 30th June 1899**

_My dear Watson, _

_I am not a man who looks into the past very often, but on the rare occasion, I wish that I had cancelled my plans, hang the danger, and boarded the first steamer to England, if so that you would be spared the burden of the power you now bear as a result of the double blow of grief you had undergone in my absence. The circumstances of it now clear to me, I only wish that I could have realised and accepted the truth sooner, rather than wallow in relative ignorance at the greatest fallacy that I have ever seen._

_Your very existence, Watson, challenge all my beliefs of the supernatural. Despite my outspoken opinion concerning faerie tales, you have, time and again, brought out evidence to the contrary. Yet, even then, as I listened to your quiet chokes that you emit when you think I do not know in the dead of night, or watch as you light all the gaslights in our picturesque pile, I fervently wish that it was I who had been granted this power. I would have taken it in a heartbeat if it meant that you would not be afraid of the dark. _

_My thoughts continue to stray occasionally towards the cellar and its sole occupant, sealed in a box of iron and buried six feet under, surrounded by the protections that you have set, such that the cellar door had resisted my every attempt to break in. You, my friend, still talk to empty air occasionally, but so far, I have not seen any sign that you would be turning to the darkness, or given in to temptation. You are indeed a stronger man than any other I could have known, even myself, for having lived with a literal demon, one that turns people into real monsters, if the accounts are anything to go by, each and everyday for the last year. _

_My friend, I write this with the knowledge that you will, barring extenuating circumstances, indeed outlive me, with the hope that you would receive this journal and keep it with you to remind you of your old friend as you reminiscence about our adventures. As you have written about my little problems before, I will now write your tale, your story that would lie in the darkness forgotten if not for this pen and paper. As you walk the centuries on the path we call life, I hope that this journal would offer you some measure of solace in your loneliness. It is the very least that I could ever do for you, my only friend. You have deserved it, and I am proud and content to have known one such like you._

_The case of Jacques Romany and his wife was one of the most notable cases that I have ever been involved in, not because of any international intrigue, or some secret mystery involved, but merely due to the presence of Mrs Romany. Never before had I met a more singular woman, that is, until I found out about her from you. I assure you that I am eternally grateful to you for protecting me from being fed upon by Mrs Romany, and not at all offended. Honestly. Nevertheless, my respect for Lara Raith is such that she eclipses the whole of her kind. If Irene Adler was, to me, The Woman , then Lara Raith must be The Monster. She is a cold, calm, efficient, intelligent and ruthless fiend that I am terrified of, because she looks so human until she gets close and the life begins to ebb away from this mortal coil. Truly, it is the greatest predator that hides in guile, and Lara Raith was the predator amongst predators._

_Yes, it is safe to say that Lara Raith is The Monster._

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_**Yay! Another new project from the rooms of lalunaticscribe and The Glorious Cheshire Cat! **_

_**ĿĿŜ&ČĦĔŞ**_

_**Please go to my profile to vote if you think I should continue this story!  
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	2. Love is the Same for All

_**In preparation for this, I studied Random Phantom's 'Hounded' and 'The Hour of the Wolf', mixed with Bartimus Crotchety's works (**_**all****_ of them, Barty, no less for you), ElenaC's 'Vampyre', studied well with The Dresden Files by Jim Butcher (Go, Dresden!) and the Complete Sherlock Holmes: All 4 Novels and 56 Short Stories compiled by Bantam Classics, grannysknitting's 'The Writing on the Wall' (this being a TV show Sherlock fanfic), and Thomas A's The Carpenter Blueprint series (this being fanfics of the Dresden Files book series). Further reads include all of KCS's joint fics, Protector of the Grey Fortress's stories, and Pompey's joint fic with Protector. Again, classic good pastiche with a twist to the tale. _**

_**All of the above, except for the Dresden Files themselves and the Complete Sherlock Holmes, are available for reading on FF. Net. And, they are all quality reads. **_

_**Furthermore, I have to thank my beta, The Glorious Cheshire Cat, for agreeing with the premise on the first round and for proofreading this, otherwise it all goes back to the drawing board. Well...*oh god, think of the work***_

_**Therefore, without further ado, we begin the first chapter of Book Two of The Watson Chronicles: Without Beginning, Without End.**_

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_**It's complicated - love. It's so unique every time, with every person. And when the real thing comes along, I guess we just have to hope we see it.**_

_**~JAMIE MARTIN, **____**All My Children**__** (1970)**_

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_**I: Love is the same for all **_

The sitting room of 221B Baker Street had been the setting for many a drama and story and explanation and experiment, sometimes involving noxious poisons and fumes, other times not at all, but this one, I believe, was one of the oddest that Sherlock Holmes have ever seen.

My friend watched with a hawk-like gaze as I manned two Bunsen burners in the corner specially reserved for chemistry, at my insistence, our long-suffering landlady's, and later the detective himself after a particular mix-up involving a potion that left him on the ceiling which took them six hours to get him down from. Holmes continued to watch as I added powders and herbs and paper (actually a picture_)_ and a crystal, this recipe not disturbing to him in the least, and then, he started slightly as the contents of the beaker frothed and fizzled before cooling down. I sighed wearily in relief and a small amount of pride as I felt the magic flow, and, leaving the beakers to simmer as I pottered about with other paraphernalia necessary to both sides of my work, ignoring the watchful gaze of the room's other occupant.

"I am hardly a specimen up for display, Holmes," I dryly commented. "I know you're curious as to the contents of that particular draught, and frankly no, you may not drink it," I hastily added the last bit as Holmes showed every indication of jumping towards the beaker and its contents. "It's an energy potion, and frankly you don't need any more coffee as it is. The other is also off-limits to you," I added wearily as Holmes aimed a hopeful look towards the other simmering beaker. I had once seen Holmes under the effects of one of the concoctions, and frankly I decided that only under pain of death would I let him near an energy potion after the event in which he ran about London like a child under a sugar rush, as some mothers called it.

"So what can I inspect?" Holmes grumbled, still eyeing the strange bubbling potions. I sighed internally. Ever since he had finally realised the secret I kept from him, he had been curious about every single aspect of the other side, as he called it, and absorbing every fact I could explain about the world in the shadows, as _I_ called it. Holmes really had the curiosity to kill a dozen cats and none of the self-preservation instinct of even one. I could have brewed poison and he would have drunk it with a smile. He had done it once, after all.

"You can inspect that," I pointed to the direction of the straw doll hanging by a thread on my armchair, allowing it to swing about, much like a pendulum. I hoped that he would not set it on fire; it took me a long time to figure out just how to set the enchantment just right.

"Watson, we've established that the doll works, now let me try the...coffee."

"Holmes, you really don't need the coffee, you've drunk the entire coffee pot!" The base of the energy potion was coffee, but I was still experimenting between coffee and tea. I _am_ English, after all. I just choose to drink coffee most of the time.

"Fine, so let me try the other...potion." He sounded petulant as he spoke.

"Holmes, that is a sleeping draught, and no. I did not brew that so that you could drink it without regard as to the effect it would have!" I exclaimed. "Also, I wasn't pointing to the doll, but..."

Holmes followed the line of my finger to see my waistcoat, pinned over the spot of wall which his earlier patriotic decoration of a V.R. graced, with a pair of scissors, a cavalry sabre, a jagged Indian dagger, his hair-trigger and my British Webley Bulldog sitting by it. "Well, what about it?"

"I want you to try and cut my waistcoat with it," I replied. I had used my waistcoat for a few experiments concerning my...magic, after a comment from Langtry about how some enchantments could render some materials to withstand physical force as if it was plate steel, make it waterproof and stain-proof, and yet still breathe. Of course, after going through the painfully precise ritual of enchanting it after about three months of intermittent research at a time I was sure Holmes was out in the cellar, which served much like a safe-deposit cum ritual room where Holmes couldn't enter (I made sure of it by not only reinforcing the door, but also the walls), I really did not have the heart to attack my own waistcoat, so hopefully Holmes would do that for me and see how it would stand up to knives. Or scissors, or bullets. Perhaps I could fire a cannon at it at some later date.

Or stains, come to think of it.

"Really now, old fellow, you used to complain when I took your clothes for an experiment..."

"Holmes, in the interest of scientific advancement, would you please cut the waistcoat, stab, shoot or otherwise try to destroy it?" my tone was now carefully neutral, which I knew would catch his attention. Holmes, now suspicious, set about the task at hand.

Therefore, when the landlady brought up the breakfast tray later, she was greeted with the sight of the great detective emptying round after round of the Webley into the waistcoat. Turning a deliberate blind eye to the action at hand, she set the tray down, commented on the noise, the mail and the weather in response to non-committal sounds from me, and left the room. It is amazing what one can regard as normal if one's daily allowance of bizarre is high enough. Lord knows Sherlock Holmes was crazier than most wizards.

"Confound it, Watson, what have you done to your waistcoat?" Holmes said, a mixture of awe and curiosity in his voice as he went at it again with the cavalry sabre. "It seems, to all intents and purposes, to be made out of ordinary material, and yet it is impervious to not only scissors, but blades and guns as well!"

"Mail's here," I commented, handing over the relevant letters and ignoring his question. Perhaps his interest in the coat could draw him away from the potions. Holmes stopped attempting to mangle the miraculously intact waistcoat and took the letters and his letter-opener.

"Bills, a letter from Lady Grey concerning her missing emerald, when it's been stolen by her light-fingered chambermaid, a letter from Mrs Darling about her poodle...well now, what is this? Watson, what do you remember about the the Romany case?"

"The one in Berkshire, or the one in West Sussex?" I asked, immediately searching my memory.

"Berkshire." He replied. I immediately recalled it.

"If I do remember correctly, Mr Jacques Romany was found dead in his bed on the morning of the 27th of June. At first, it was suspected to be caused by a heart attack, as the man had a heart condition, but the presence of a recent hypodermic syringe mark on his wrist and the syringe in question in the same hand, added with the secretary's insistence that he was murdered resulted in foul play suspected and an autopsy carried out. It had been revealed that Mr Romany has recently argued with his wife, Lara Romany, and that his wife was the one who gave him his medicine every night. Furthermore, the couple was childless and in the case of death the wife would inherit everything, therefore..."

"The wife was suspected and Scotland Yard called in, however she has managed to flee before a warrant could be issued and she would be coming over to our sitting room at ten o'clock." Holmes finished, reaching for his pipe as he threw the letter upon the table.

I took up the letter to scan its contents:

_The Olive Branch,  
Combe, Berkshire_

_28th June 1899_

_Mr Sherlock Holmes  
221B Baker Street  
City of London, NW1 6XE_

_Mr Holmes:_

_I apologise for presuming upon you like this, but my husband has died and I am about to be arrested for his murder. My husband, Jacques Romany, was the victim of the Romany case that had been mentioned in the newspapers much earlier this month. If you would be so kind as to send a reply about any time on the first of July you might be available for consultation, I would be extremely grateful to you. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_Lara Romany, nee Raith_

"I must say, I already admire this woman. Rather than wait around mourning her husband, she has taken the offensive and has moved. In a place with more gender equality, this woman would go far." Holmes commented, puffing away at his pipe as he scribbled out a telegram on a sheet of paper.

"Why does the name Raith sound so familiar?" I wondered out loud as the name echoed some chord of familiarity within me.

"The Raith family is the owner of several hotels in France and quite a few resorts on the Isle of Wight," Holmes pointed out. "Furthermore, I have suspected them of trafficking slaves through the Channel from England to the Continent, although evidence is difficult to find. Watson, do hand me the copy of _Who's Who _over there, there's a chap. I would like to see Mr Jacques Romany's status. He is unknown to me in any way pertaining to my special studies."

I handed him the indicated tome, brow still creased in some concentration. "No, I don't think it's anything to do with the rich and famous," I grumbled.

"Well then, we will see Mrs Romany at ten," Holmes smiled in anticipation as he finished scribbling. "Mrs Hudson would help me post it, now, Watson, the game's afoot!"

Little did we know how the case would turn out...or exactly what our client would be.

* * *

**Holmes**

By ten o'clock, Watson was conspicuously absent from the sitting room, having buried himself under tome and musty tome of fairy tales and whatnot, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in our (now clean) sitting room, and the doorbell had rung.

And then, Mrs Romany entered the room and swept my breath away.

I assure you that despite all the rumours about me, I am perfectly capable of appreciating aesthetic beauty. Fortunately, I am able to control any aesthetic feelings that may incur upon meeting female clients, or female relatives, acquaintances, friends, fiancés, etcetera. However, most of the time I fail to see the relevance of a woman's beauty. Irene Adler was a different story; she was _alive_, her sheer vibrancy and the light that shone like a star from her just being spirited, it made one feel excited, the joy of sprinting at top speed in the wind, the excitement of the hunt, the sheer satisfaction at finally catching the prey (See, I can be romantic when the mood strikes me).

Mrs Romany was slender, much like a snake in its grace, I thought. Her long blue-black hair framing a thin face, with stormy grey eyes much like my own and a wide mouth that my Watson would have described as 'made for sin', hid slightly behind a rather redundant mourning veil, and pale, clear skin, subtle muscles shifting underneath as she walked into the room, dressed in a conservative black cotton dress with puffed sleeves, paired with matching scarf of silk and a corset that gave her a slight S-curve silhouette. The trumpet-skirt of the dress flared just above the knees, where equally pale, long legs covered with long black silk stockings and clad in expensive Italian leather boots. She held with her a pearly-grey, almost black, satin purse with a ball-clasp, as charming as its owner was, as Watson would say, with a telegram form sticking out which I identified as being from Paddington station.

I drew a deep breath, wondering why had I forgotten that act so vital to life for a moment, and I stood and bowed with a smile. "Good day, Mrs Romany, Sherlock Holmes, at your service. Please, have a seat." I motioned to the settee.

"Thank you, and do call me Miss Raith." Her voice had an interesting Italian tilt about it, as she seated herself by the settee, taking the time to arrange herself such that she could face me as an equal. "I am going by my maiden name again," she explained. Another point in her favour. I sorely lament that Watson was not here; it would have been a comic reaction to see him in the presence of Miss Raith. Perhaps he would wander in here at some point in time instead of scouring those books of his in the room and then I might actually have some entertainment.

I wiped the smile off my face with some effort; _mustn't scare the client now, Sherlock,_ and with some not-inconsiderable will force myself back into my armchair when I'd rather be on the settee with Miss Raith... I blinked. Where did _that_ come from?

"Well then, Mrs Romany...Miss Raith," I corrected myself, "save for the fact that you have come to London by the morning train through Paddington, have just received my telegram at the station, and that you have walked here rather than take a hansom, which is quite unusual for an extremely wealthy, confident and practical woman such as yourself, that you are loyal to and proud of the family you grew up in, and that you are here to consult me concerning the death of your husband, I know completely nothing about you." Ah yes, deduction, the safe haven for the momentarily stumped. "Therefore, do enlighten as to the details behind your husband's demise."

I had heard that there were women who could inspire men to murder friends and start wars, but I have yet to meet any that could stimulate such an effect in me. Clearly, Helen of Troy must have inspired such an effect in the days of ancient Greece. Otherwise, there was no other reason why would the armies of the kingdoms of Greece lay siege on Troy for one woman.

Fortunately, the woman's face registered slight surprise before her features rearranged themselves to a Botticelli painting's face. A serene, still poker face. "Mr Holmes," she spoke, her voice slow, sensual, one that made my skin heat upon hearing it, "I have heard of your abilities, but this is the first time that I have honestly believed their extent. Do tell me how you came upon that conclusion."

Quite an interesting woman, Miss Raith. An improvement from the majority of her sex. "Your clothing, Miss Raith. You have grass stains on your shoes and a species of plant peeping out below the sole, which I am sure does not grow anywhere close to the greater London area. It fact, it grows only in the Berkshire area. The morning train from Paddington and the telegram is indicated by the form sticking out of your purse. Practicality is shown by that you have chosen to wear a more hardy pair of boots tan is fashionable, confidence by your bearing, and the husband's death by the newspapers." I recited my thought process.

"Then, how did you know that I walked here?" she asked, nodding in understanding.

I smiled in reply. "I saw you."

"Then, the loyalty to family?"

"My dear Miss Raith, when a woman writes her maiden name directly after her married name, and goes by it so soon after the death of her husband, surely I am not wrong to say that you are proud to be a Raith?"

Her lips turned up at the corners in amusement. "I should have noticed earlier. Indeed, Mr Holmes, you have proven yourself deserving of your reputation. Therefore, do allow me to lay my problem before you." the last words were spoken in a breathy tone as she leant forward, much like a wolf does in the face of prey, I thought. Surely...

At that moment, Watson chose to open the door. "Holmes, I left my coat here...oh, I see, you have a client, I'm sorry..." he trailed off as he got a closer look at my client. "I would presume that I am standing before Madam Raith? I am Doctor Watson, his flatmate," He asked, startling me in surprise as he employed a Gallic bow, the bastard.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Doctor," she said, that vulpine smile still playing about her lips. I felt extremely disturbed already, as her eyes wandered about the room, taking in her surroundings as she held out her hand. Watson coldly looked at her proffered, un-gloved appendage with some caution as he took it and bent over it. Her smile froze on her face as Watson, his eyes frozen on her face, let go.

"This agency stands with its feet firmly on the ground, Madam, no ghosts need apply," Watson said, unusually stiff, his hands poised and ready to cast, I noted. "Are you sure it is the proper one that you seek?"

Watson had never, before, spoken to a client like this. After all, despite living through a few years with his power, I have never seen him behave as such towards any lady, regardless of class. The guarded way he looked at her was also another indication of strange behaviour. And, as his eyes flashed to me, I could only interpret concern, rage, worry, fear, caution from them. All of these meant that Miss Raith, if that was her real name, came from the other side.

And, as my eyes flicked from Watson to her, I could see her eyes glazing to silver, very unlike the stormy grey that I had seen there, which of course, led to me the unyielding conclusion that Miss Raith was one of _them._

A creature of the night. A predator of humanity. A member of those faceless terrors in the darkness.

"I am hardly a ghost, Doctor, and I am sure that it is the correct agency. After all, I am here to seek the help of Mr Sherlock Holmes to clear my name," she shrugged. "Who I am is hardly a concern to him, and surely you would not enlighten him as to that fact."

"Holmes and I share our knowledge," Watson replied, this time less cold. "I would hardly let him expose himself to whom he does not know without all the help he may muster. He knows of our...mutual side, Madam Raith. How is the White King recently?"

"Flourishing, richer than in years past, and ever powerful." Her smile was guarded as she replied. "And of course, prepared to pay any price Mr Holmes demands to clear his daughter's name of murder. As the newspapers may have told you, my husband is dead, and I am accused of his murder. And if you would not help me, I will die at the hangman's rope."

"So, you claim that you did not murder him?" I prompted.

"Of course _not,"_ Watson replied dryly. "Why use poison when you can kill him just as easily with a heart attack? Isn't that so, Madam Raith?"

Her lovely face twisted into something resembling irritation. "Let us lift the façade, Doctor," she snapped, further proving that she knew Watson, or at least who he was. "You name me as part of my house, instead of my husband's name. Therefore, do not deny that you and your friend do not know who I am, and who I represent." The sheer anger in her voice was enough to take care of any doubts I had. I shivered in some fear at the anger laced in her voice, although not visibly, of course, but her eyes turned to me, slightly silver and shining and viscerally _hungry_.

Watson rapped his cane on the floor. "Very well then. Madam Raith, Mr Sherlock Holmes, the main agent of this agency and London's highest court of appeal in detection. Holmes, allow me to introduce Lara Raith, previously Lara Romany, eldest daughter of the lord of House Raith, which rules the White Court of Vampires."

"Your knowledge is thorough, wizard," she acknowledged,her head tilted towards Watson slightly, her smile and her eyes that of the predator's.

"As is yours, vampire," Watson replied, with an equally threatening expression. "As is yours."

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_**All right! Wizard versus vampire! And Sherlock Holmes in the crossfire!**_

_**Again, visit the poll at my profile if you think I should continue this!  
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	3. Love is a Story for the Ages

_**There are elements of The Dresden Files here. Sherlock Holmes is owned by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, while The Dresden Files and all subsequent characters are owned by Jim Butcher.**_

_**I have recently noticed that the series I was planning for this can be placed at almost any date. Hence, for once, I am going to vary the order according to your preference. If you were to go to my profile, you would see a poll there. I will post pretty much the whole planned series' title and a short, sweet synopsis of the planned story. The story with the most votes by closing date will become the new third book, the one with the next most votes the fourth, and so on.  
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_**Enjoy reading!**_

_**refleckshun, I appreciate your reviews. This one's for you.  
**_

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_**Enjoy reading!**_

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_**Law and love are the same - romantic in concept but the actual practice can give you a yeast infection.**_

_**ALLY McBEAL, **__**Ally McBeal**__**, (1997)**_

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_**II: Love is a Story that echoes throughout the Ages**_

**Holmes**

When I first had Watson as a flatmate, he had only brought two cases to me, one concerning Colonel Warburton's madness (now _that_ was insanity unrivalled) and the case of the Engineer's Thumb which had been written and chronicled for the literate population to read. Of course, once he had somehow received that...power, I received more than one case in which he played a not insignificant part in. Unfortunately, none of those cases could ever be chronicled except perhaps as fiction of the lowest form despite every word being truth, for none would ever believe us if we were to tell the tale of say, the enchanted coin, or the one of the scourge of anthrophages, or the one concerning the escapade with _Reine de Winter_, or even the story of Lara Raith.

Lara Raith. A vampire, albeit different from those anthrophages I had seen before, but one nevertheless. The most terrifying one that I would ever know.

"Is it...wise to inform him?" Miss Raith questioned, tapping her fingers upon one knee.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Watson shrugged. "Forewarned is forearmed, as you would know, Madame Raith. At any rate, at least you cannot feed upon him in the sly should I not be around."

"It is a tempting thought, though," Miss Raith said as her eyes wandered to me, licking her lips. I tried not to stare as she did it slowly. "However, I am not here to exchange pleasantries, but to clear my name of murder."

Watson's expression changed to one of puzzlement as he sank into his customary chair, cane still at the ready. From under our shared coffee table, he drew out a pad of paper and a pen. "Should I?" he asked me.

"Please," I replied, reclining on my armchair in a position of relaxation, my eyes closed and hands steepled before me. "Tell us your tale."

As I opened one eye, I saw Miss Raith throw Watson a look of confusion, at which Watson, with a resigned expression, motioned towards the pad, and then me, and the universal gesture of _get on with it_. "My apologies, but my friend is an eccentric man and concentrates on listening to your account better with his eyes closed."

"It is no matter," she replied with barely concealed hostility at Watson. "Some wizards capable of Listening do this as well."

It is at these times that I really hate not knowing more about the other side to which Watson belongs now. After all, I am Sherlock Holmes; I'm supposed to know things, not remain woefully ignorant of them.

"When should I begin?" she asked. "At the murder itself, or the events preceding it?"

"The preceding events, if you please," I murmured, ready to hear her tale. Really, if there were more women like this Lara Raith, I can now see the future being dominated by the fairer sex. As if we all don't listen to the Queen herself already.

"My husband's full name is Jacques Francis D. Romany," she first dictated. "He is the co-founder, chairman of the board of directors, and overall overseer of the confectioner Worth & Romany. He owns estates across the country and in several other countries in the Continent as well. We met in one of my family's hotels, the Fleur de Lis, six years ago and married after a year of courtship. We have had no luck with conception; in the case of his death, barring a few provisions to notable servants, his secretary, and the majority of his stake in the company to his partner, I would inherit everything."

"On the evening of twenty-sixth of June of this year, we argued about some petty argument that I couldn't remember, which resulted in my putting up in a separate room just directly across our room's door for the night. As per usual, I entered the room before his usual bedtime of eleven o'clock to administer his medicine."

"Did he have a long-term medical condition? Has he no servant to help him?"

"My husband has a weak heart and requires nightly injections of preparations of digitalis, but he is otherwise in good health. The butler, Trevor, or his secretary, Gladys Butler, would help him in my absence, but otherwise the administration of his medicine was left to me. It is," and here she eyed me with a knowing smile, "part of a marital life, before bed, as the good doctor would no doubt know."

The coughing fit Watson put on gave me an idea as to _which_ part of marital life she was referring to.

"Directly after giving him his customary injection I retired to my room and slept. Upon waking, I refreshed my toilette and went to the parlour for breakfast at seven. An hour later, Gladys's scream alerted the household and we rushed to the room immediately to see her screaming at my husband's sleeping form. Only upon closer examination did we realise that his body was cold and that he had no pulse, added with the presence of the hypodermic syringe in his hand, and we jumped to a conclusion. Only then did Trevor rush for the local doctor, a Dr. Bartley, who declared him dead upon further examination. Dr. Bartley said that the cause of death was of a heart attack, except for Gladys's insistence that he was killed by me. She called me a lying bitch and hoped that I would dance on the hangman's rope and that my soul would burn in hell for the rest of eternity..."

"Miss Raith," Watson sounded pained by the language this woman was describing. To be frank, so did I, to hear her speak of such crude words. Ow, my delicate sensibilities.

"I was using such words before they were considered crude, dear Doctor, but I was quoting," she shrugged nonchalantly. I was about to ask exactly how old she was but the slashing motion Watson began to perform made me hold my tongue.

"Continue, please," I said. Watson stopped his mime of a throat-cutter. Miss Raith simply remained amused by the situation.

"Very well, then," she continued. "At the inquest, he was declared to have been murdered by person or persons unknown, due to the local constable deducing that since the mark was on my husband's right hand, and that my husband was right-handed, followed by that the syringe was found in his right hand, that he could not have committed suicide. I was the last known person to have touched the medicine, and, added to the fact that my room was directly opposite my husband's, and that I stand to gain the most from his death, it was logical that I be the suspect with the strongest motive. After three days, I have heard that I am about to be arrested and, given that all the points of evidence are against me, I have come to lay the problem before you, Mr. Holmes."

"To anyone else, it would have been an extremely strong motive," I said. "After all, your husband's total fortune numbers to quite a tidy sum. In fact, I would place him as being one of the top fifty richest in England. However, the idea of money as motive would not apply to you now, would it, Miss Raith? The Raith family has more money than Mr. Romany could ever hope to make in his entire lifetime, assuming that he actually lived in the beginning."

A muscle above her left eye twitched slightly before she acknowledged it with a slight nod.

"Furthermore, your personal dowry was the thing that saved Worth and Romany from collapse at the last recession, if my recollection was correct," I continued. "Therefore, money could not be a possible motive. We also take into account that you could, in all probability, kill him with a heart attack during sex.

"Such a practical woman as yourself would no doubt choose the most practical method of murder in which no doubt can be cast on you. Therefore, you would have no need to kill him with a medicinal overdose, especially if you were the last known person to have handled the medicine. That does not fit the character that you portray, Miss Raith."

"Unfortunately, that would not be so in the eyes of the Berkshire constabulary," she replied. "Gladys has laid all the points against my favour in their eyes. To the Berkshire police, I am as guilty as if I had been caught killing him with a knife by the police themselves."

"Then why do you not run?" Watson suggested.

Miss Raith gave him a cold look that, if looks could kill, would have long rendered Watson dead on the spot. "I am innocent. I have merely come here to engage your services. I have no need to run, not when I did not kill him."

"In order to reach that conclusion, we would have to visit your estate, Miss Raith," I said, feeling that I had better attempt to keep her away from my self or Watson's self. I have no desire to be a vampire's meal, no matter what part of me was being eaten. "And most likely, we would have to stay within the area. It is the holiday season now, after all, and perhaps we could appear under the guise of the holidaymakers from London, down to spend a few days by the sea. You would have to return earlier, or else the police would think that you have fled the country, and that would be taken as an admission of guilt. Unfortunately, there is the problem of rooms..."

"I will arrange for you to stay at The Olive Branch. My estate, in Combe, Berkshire," she clarified. "My husband commissioned it for a wedding present directly before proposing, as we had argued at that time. It was his method of 'extending the olive branch', so to speak. Of course, it was also where he died. I will see you tomorrow at the estate, if you are agreeable."

I felt my face twitch slightly. "I thank you for your kind offer then, Miss Raith," I said.

"Of course, there is the matter of payment..." she began.

"There is a fixed scale, Miss Raith, no more, no less. However, the work itself is its own reward," I replied. "Your case might prove to be inter-... gratifying."

"Then, I shall return and expect you soon," she replied as we stood to see the lady off.

Her smile again was enchanting and eerie at the same time; I wondered as to the effect she had on men as she left the room. It felt very much like the sun had set in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street.

* * *

**Watson**

This could only end in disaster.

My dear readers, I know that from my accounts, I moved back to Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes and pretty much spent the rest of my life there, but it was not so. In fact, I had once attempted to move out to a place further away from Holmes due to the very fact that my... magic was still burgeoning and out of control such that I could never be sure when a flame would suddenly flare in my presence, or when things begin to move with a dismissive wave of tiredness, or when I started seeing colours and lights where there weren't any at all. Holmes had presented his argument against my moving in such that it was difficult to refute without making me seem more idiotic. I had resigned myself to living as such and hoping that the madness would have gone away.

And then came the Shoreditch Stakings and more visions of the suffering, burning ghosts that began to haunt even my waking hours such that I could not bear the thought of staying in shadow for even a moment longer than necessary. The only upside was that I no longer needed to keep my second nature a secret from my best friend, but occasionally I would still catch him attempting to break into my room. Little did he know that my skill in wards, no matter how minor it was, was such that I could successfully seal a door from opening. The only way Holmes could ever unseal the door was to hold a special crystal near it, but he did not know that, or had yet to even factor in the existence of magic to seal. After this case and its revelation along with my introduction to my mentor Arthur Langtry, I had introduced him to the hauntings at St Bart's, the truth of the Shoreditch Stakings, and many other cases, albeit of a supernatural bent, that we were involved in as a result of my new-found power that had manifested itself as a result of the grief I had felt throughout '91 and '92.

And then, along came the Romany case.

Like I said, this could only end in disaster. I steeled myself and put on the expression that said that this could only be a bad idea.

"Holmes, when we are there, you are not to make skin contact with Madame Raith, or anyone with a family resemblance to her, otherwise, you may just fall prey to the supernatural influence," I firmly said as I picked up the still miraculously intact waistcoat. Langtry had mentioned that the spells would fade with time and sunrises, and hence I would have to refresh the spells upon it if I wanted it to continue. At the very least, I no longer had to worry about adding additional wards around the cellar and the ready-made hole I had filled with concrete and an iron box, containing within a circle of iron, an old Roman denarius in which a fallen angel of the name of Lupiel dwelt, and thus had more power to spare to lay enchantments on my waistcoat and foci.

"Vampires of the White Court feed upon emotion," I continued to tell him. "Lust, fear, depression, all those types. To do so, they normally approach their prey with the lure of sex and generally feed during coupling. Those who are fed upon become addicted to the resulting ecstasy and little more than slaves to them. The most dangerous thing about them is that they may hide their aspect and walk about humans in broad daylight as wolves in sheep's clothing and you would not realise what they are until they feed. Even a touch may bring about a connection in which they may influence you. Is that all clear so far?" I was desperate to protect Holmes. In persisting by my side, he had exposed himself to a world beyond any of his understanding and thus, if I could not help in his investigation, I could at the very least give him the necessary information I had at my disposal, many thanks to my collection of books of the arcane that I had kept for five years, in order for Holmes to at least have a fighting chance.

Previously, he would have laughed at me for feeding him fairy-tales. About five Black Court vampires, two red-caps, a few gremlins, and three trolls to date later, he had now turned to listening whenever I started on such a narration. The turning point was perhaps due to the last time he had turned a cross onto a vampire, if only for it to grab said cross and attempt to bite Holmes. If not for some ill-mannered gentleman by the name of John Watson laying a stick charged with static across his eyes, followed by a roasting from yours truly, I doubt that Holmes would have survived to hear that _vampires are repelled by symbol__s of faith, and when was the last time __you__ believed?_

Darwin had always found it advantageous to be a quick learner. Our newest slew of cases has merely made the price of not learning much steeper. And as usual, Holmes had proven his evolutionary superiority by adapting quickly. Of course, his ever-increasing position as a liability and becoming dependent on me for knowledge and protection against the other side went down like a ton of bricks. Which is to say, not very well. I try to think positively about it; it could have been much worse.

I then remembered that I had an appointment with Langtry soon and really, if it wasn't absolutely necessary for two reasons, I would have gladly sent a telegram to inform Langtry that I couldn't make it, I had to pack to leave on short notice for Berkshire.

"Holmes," I said again as I pulled myself up. "I am going out to meet Langtry." He abruptly stiffened, as he often did when I mentioned the most powerful wizard in London who lived in the Diogenes Club in a suite above those of Mycroft Holmes. I was unclear as to the exact relationship between the elder Holmes and the ancient wizard, but I took it that Mycroft often cleaned up after any supernatural tangles and in exchange any wizard in London had to contribute any possible knowledge towards the safety of the Empire. I believe that it was due to such open-mindedness and the oblique hints of revealing the supernatural existence and thus sparking off another Inquisition that the Empire had gained such a formidable ally in the form of more than one supernatural powerhouse. After all, when it comes down to national security, the elder Holmes was not known for pulling any punches. "I am going to ask him more about the White Court, and about Lara Raith. Do tell Mrs. Hudson that I would be home for dinner late."

As I walked out the door, I had this niggling feeling that Holmes would undoubtedly realise that Langtry was still in Edinburgh and try to follow me to wherever I was going, if just to see why had I mentioned I was going to meet a man who was clearly away and not in London. Well then, if he could find his way to Edinburgh in five minutes, I wish him luck.

I tripped slightly as I made my way to where Baker Street touched Marylebone Road, noticing as I recovered that Holmes was following me. Obviously, he had not made the effort to disguise himself quickly.

I cursed myself slightly as I realised that I had somewhat forgotten my scarf. Even though the walk through the Ways were only about five minutes, the idea of spending even a minute marching through snow-covered valleys was quite enough to make me shiver unconsciously.

I turned right, and marched onwards, my coat billowing out as a wind blew through the alley, my cane tapping onto the cobbles as I moved onwards. I had my army revolver in my pocket and my sword cane at the ready, although Langtry had mentioned that in some parts, gunpowder was incombustible and it was better to bring some steel along. The Ways mostly ran through Faerie, the largest part of the Nevernever, which was the whole other world which contains pretty much every other world, ranging from Heaven to Hell and a whole other gamut besides it. Its inhabitants, faeries, hate iron and any of its alloys, and hence with some steel, I would be safer, if only marginally so, for the five minutes it took me to travel from London, England, to Edinburgh, Scotland.

You see, wizards cheat. We have to, in a world where we wizards are physically weaker, slower, and not even more intelligent. Even though we know things, unless we use that information, knowledge doesn't stop fangs or claws or anything else. Even magically speaking, there are creatures in the hidden world that are beyond any wizard's ability to take down. Furthermore, the criminal classes were impartial and thus we had to not only be able to protect ourselves from mortals, but also a whole array of monsters besides.

There was this event a few centuries back known as the Inquisition. That event had killed quite a few wizards, but not all. The reason was that some of us, with the odds stacked against us, had cheated. The very fact that we had survived was proof of it's effectiveness.

Hence, in the case where the odds are against us, we cheat. A lot. Just like what I was about to do.

Time and distance does not feature much in the Nevernever, which is constantly changing geographically, depending upon the wills of the Queens of Faerie or other such powerful beings. Therefore, two far apart points in the real world may be extremely close to each other in there, if Langtry was to be believed. For example, we open an entrance from St Paul's Church, London, England, to the Nevernever to a idyllic field full of light as far as the eye could see, walk about a mile north, to an even brighter place and more idyllic garden and exit the Nevernever to St Peter's Square, Rome. Total distance walked: a mile. Total time taken: about five minutes. Total distance covered: several thousand miles.

Therefore, I could in fact make the trip I was about to do, provided that I did not lose my way and end up somewhere else, or provided that the Ways did not change again, as it was wont to do, or that there were no monsters roaming about the Ways again to eat unsuspecting passers-by. It was not fun on my first trip to Edinburgh; we had run into giant spiders and it took almost all my strength to hold them off whilst Langtry opened the Way. The entrance we had received was epic at best.

That was why I only used the Ways as a last resort, and even then only the local Ways, say, from Elephant & Castle to Tottenham Court Road, occasionally.

Holmes haven't been in the Ways yet. I haven't told him. Having Sherlock Holmes loose in Faerie could only spell disaster of the highest level. With good reason, too. I turned left here, faced with a brick wall. Perfect. Now to get myself safely in Edinburgh before Holmes could follow. I felt the danger every time I walked through, and the feeling of insecurity could only increase with Holmes following me.

Magic is tied in to emotions. The sounds of a baby's laugh, the joy at seeing the sun, the contentment of seeing the countryside view, anger, guilt, the love of a mother; all magic in their own way. Paraphrased from _Elementary Magic, _by Ebenazar McCoy, whom I met a few months ago over the Shoreditch Stakings.

Wizards use words from old languages or made up, intellectual-sounding words to cast spells, to provide a layer of insulation against the magic. Magic can be cast without words, but it hurts; I knew from experience. Another reason to use intellectual words is to scare our opponent in the case of ordinary mortals who have no idea who they are facing. Believe me, that scare tactic works really well. Plus, it feels swell. Wizards take the emotion and shape it with their will into the desired effect before releasing it. The rule of thumb was, _Intent is nine-tenths of the law. _Idea being, if we have the will, it would happen, one way or another. We had to truly believe in ourselves, in our magic, not just that it _would_ happen, but it _sh__ould_ happen. Therefore, if we, by all witnesses, wave a stick, concentrate, and say a few words, _something _will happen.

In my case, I rapped my cane upon the ground, concentrating with all my will, and the gate opened with an _"Sesama_ _aperta."_

Don't laugh. Just, don't.

Think of a brick wall on a piece of paper. Then, take a knife and stab it up from underneath, and from there, proceed to slice it open. That was how I thought my gateway looked like when it opened out to another world and I stepped through.

The first thing that hit me was the sheer contrast of the alley, and its sympathetic point in the Nevernever. In London, there are few places in which grass would grow. Here, wide fields of varying shades of green stretched out, dotted with fields of different colours. To my left, the darker fields stretched out towards a dark oak wood, behind which towered a range of forbidding mountains which Langtry had commented before as the stronghold of the Winter Court of Faerie. To my right, lighter fields filled with riotous colours that I was sure was not native to Britain stretched out towards what seemed to be a huge forest that I was sure existed only in the tropics and contained the domain of the Summer Court. Before me, hills rippled out, each hill's apex shining with viridian light where the power of Winter and Summer clashed, and at one faraway point I swore I could see a structure very much resembling Stonehenge in design. The most stunning centrepiece of it all was the sky, an impossibly velvet blue expanse free of cloud that had not been seen in London for a long time.

Here was the Nevernever, and apparently, London stood on the borders of Faerie, between the domains of Summer and Winter. I allowed myself some satisfaction at wondering how would Holmes manage to come to the conclusion of the method of transport used to reach Edinburgh in five minutes.

"Where are we?" Holmes's voice shot out, quiet in wonder behind me.

Trust Holmes to manage what I had been trying to prevent ever since he had learned about the Ways.

* * *

_**I've always thought that no DF book should go without a mention of Faerie. I also think that London, being the centre of power of the strongest Empire of its time, would also contain the Stone Table as its sympathetic point in the Nevernever.**_

_**For those who have no idea of the Dresden Files, the Stone Table and its surrounding area is made pretty much resembling Stonehenge, and in the middle of all the boulders, there would be a flat, circular stone slab carved with runes around the edge. Blood poured on the Table carries with it power that goes to whichever Queen rules the Table, i.e. if blood is poured during winter, power goes to the Winter Queen, and same thing goes to Summer. However, rule of the Table changes every equinox, i.e. at Midsummer, the height of Summer's strength, control of the Table passes from Summer to Winter, and vice versa. This ensures a balance of power between the two ruling powers of Faerie, and that the balance between the two Courts remain stable, as the two Courts are frequently involved in a Cold War between each other. The only exception was if someone were to threaten all of Faerie, or if the balance were to be disrupted between the Courts, at which war between the Courts would start and blow everything to bits to let it all settle back to its proper place. The last time such a war happened, Winter won, and the world was plunged into an Ice Age. If Summer wins, an era of rampant growth begins. Nice; if you're an Ebola virus, you'll have lots of friends. Therefore, no matter which side wins, the world is still screwed in a Greenpeace sort of way.**_


	4. Love blossoms in all weathers

_**I am a big fan of epics! Therefore, Ches always say**__**s**__** that I write epically! However, you're entertained, right?**_

_**Again, please vote at the poll on my profile which story would you like to read first!**_

_**Insert standard disclaimer here**_

* * *

_**III: Love blossoms in all weathers**_

**Watson**

This is the very reason why I have never told my friend about the Ways.

"Where on earth did this...?" He began to wonder as he took in his new surroundings. I sighed, knowing that I was in for a long berating from him.

"Holmes, what are you doing here?" I sighed quietly, now planning how to get him out. To someone who celebrated logic like Sherlock Holmes, the Nevernever was a disaster zone, metaphorically speaking. This was a place which was ruled mostly by imagination and the will of whichever power was wandering through. In this case, the land, passage of time, and sometimes even the weather may actually change based on the whims of the Faerie Queens, if Langtry's account was true as he walked me through the Way to Edinburgh. Granted, at that time we were running from really large spiders, but the seriousness was there, nevertheless, and Holmes was ready defenceless prey in Faerie, be it Winter, Summer or even Wyldfae. Even worse was the fact that he didn't believe in faeries, even after three trolls, and thus didn't have an iron weapon with him.

"Come now, when you say that you were about to visit a man who was clearly out of town, obviously I would become suspicious as to exactly what were you doing," he replied airily, not even bothering to hide his voice. "I certainly did not expect...this."

"Ssh!" I hissed at him. "Don't talk so loudly!"

Once, he would have looked affronted. Now, he was just cautious. "Why?" He whispered back.

"If you do, you may alert some nasty thing to come and eat us, and I'm not sure if I can fight them off." I replied, searching about for said nasty creature. "I'm going to open the gateway again, and you can get back..."

"Watson," he murmured. "Don't you trust me?"

I nodded.

"In that case, why do you not allow me to accompany you?" The full force of his gaze was turned on to me as he wheedled, for lack of a better word. Drat him and his eyes.

"This," I motioned, "is the Nevernever. The habitat of most monsters. You have no magic, no strength, and not even the speed to give yourself a running chance. I may have magic, but I am not skilled enough as an evocator to ensure that I would be able to fight off any terror we might meet and even then, I would lose against more than one." Even though Langtry had commented that I had a gift for evocation, I knew that I was still inexperienced in fire magic, and I had no wish to truly test my less-than-stellar control of any force with Holmes within proximity. "Furthermore," I continued before he could even argue against it, "this place is one where physics only serves as a running guideline, and even then a very flexible one. I cannot afford to have you loose around here."

"Watson," he sounded offended, as if I had insulted him. "I am perfectly capable of following your lead. Also, I have a gun," he patted his coat pocket, where I supposed his hair-trigger was located."

"Gun powder is incombustible in some parts of the Nevernever," I replied automatically. I had learnt that the hard way by trying to shoot one of the giant spider that waylaid us on my first trip through. Believe me, nothing screams despair more than the click of a revolver with no accompanying bullet.

He looked gobsmacked. "You're joking."

"No. I learnt that the hard way." I didn't bother to elaborate. "As far as I know, you rely on boxing and Baritsu to defend yourself in London. This is the Nevernever; they play by different rules here. If you don't have strength to fight, or speed to run, or magic or a weapon of iron to defend, as far as any of Faerie are concerned, you are easy prey. They will eat you, and leave not even a single bone." This had been drilled into me by Langtry the very moment we reached our safe destination.

I then let my voice soften with concern. "Holmes, go back."

He looked affronted for a moment. "Really, Watson, do you really have the energy to expend in getting me back to London?"

"No," I freely admitted. I had to conserve enough energy to get us there, back, and enough to defend. I had not the strength to open any gate more than four times. Although Langtry had commented that it was a game effort for someone only recently come into power, I really did not have the energy to expend in opening it, getting Holmes through, and then getting through the Way without serious repercussions. Langtry might have said that this was one of the safest Ways through, but giant spiders have taught me never to take safety for granted in the Nevernever.

"Furthermore, you yourself had admitted that the Way is dangerous, no?" he had turned that look on me, that one which said that he was about to win the argument, drat him.

"Yes," I reluctantly admitted with a sinking feeling where this argument was going.

"Therefore, who better than me to watch your back?" He cheerfully announced, as a vicious growl made itself known far off.

We gulped.

I sighed. "Fine, now let's go before whatever monster there gets here. No, just because it sounds far off does not mean it really is. Time and distance are messed up here."

* * *

**Holmes**

For once, I silently followed Watson's lead as we turned left, towards the mountains, as Watson began narrating to me the geography of the largest realm of the Nevernever, Faerie. I almost gasped in wonder at the beauty of the place; it was so wholly alien and energetic and _alive, _but then I remembered the growl of some unknown being and had the sense to keep quiet as we trudged through the grass fields, suddenly coming towards the edge of a valley which wound through a range of vicious looking mountains, between which cold north winds blew into our faces, and the sunlight rapidly decreased until it was much like night.

"These are the Unseelie Mountains, home of the Unseelie fae, and before you say anything about faeries, remember that trolls live here too," he said, waylaying any question I might have had. "If we went in the other direction, we would have strayed out of the Winter Queen's domain and into the Summer Queen's." he continued commentary as we turned left, trudging up against a path of rock that looked sharp and forbidding.

"All the nasty things of Faerie are found in the Mountains," Watson continued. "I think a bit further ahead there's an entrance that opens to the Alps, but it's risky. Everything here makes the East End at its worst look tame. If you're caught, you can safely resign yourself to being eaten. However, the worst ones are the Sidhe, the nobility of Faerie and the actual courtiers of either Court. Eat and drink nothing offered, don't accept any deals they make, and be prepared to run when around here."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

Watson stopped, a sheepish look on his face for a moment. "When I first followed you on the cases," he whispered, barely audible over the wind's howl as he began trudging on with me following, "there was a fear of danger about, but I knew that in all that, I had my back protected by you, as I did for you. I believed in your fighting prowess and at least there were predictable forces we went up against. However, now, we are in a place populated with every of Faerie's nastiest monsters and I have no guarantee that I can watch your back or that you could even fight them off. At the very least, by giving you information, as much as possible, you would have a fighting chance. In here, you never know what is useful and what is not, and every bit of foreknowledge translates to being forearmed, at least enough to give you a running chance."

I felt oddly touched that Watson had thought of such a thing, chagrined that he thought that I would need protection, and slightly guilty that I had withheld facts from him before.

"We're here," he abruptly stated, stopping. He took a deep breath, staring at the wall for a moment, and then rapped his cane twice upon the rocky path. The sound echoed throughout the Unseelie Mountains, louder than I would have believed possible, almost magical, a song in tune with the howl of the winds. "_Sesama aperta."_

I fought the resulting near-giggle, watching in wonder instead as the rocky mountainside split open and together, we stepped through. Blinking our eyes as we recovered from the disorientation from dark to only slightly gloomy, we soon recovered to register the fact that we were standing in a cavern where crystals gave off its illumination from the walls, that smelt musty, wet and of minerals native to Scotland, in clothing covered in a form of clear gel that rapidly evaporated, I noted, and that there were two men and one woman standing before us, wearing cloaks of grey and pointing glowing staffs at us.

Watson immediately shifted to a position of relaxed non-aggression. "I am John Watson, coming on request of Wizard Langtry of the White Council," he stated clearly. "I seek permission to enter the Hidden Halls of Edinburgh, O Wardens. May I pass?"

"Fowl by name and foul by nature, thy name is?" one of them quoted.

"Turkey," Watson replied. "Hate the stuff."

The woman's face twitched into a slight smile as she and her compatriots withdrew their staffs. "Be welcome to the seat of the White Council, Doctor Watson. Enter in peace and depart in peace. Who is your companion?"

"This is Mr Sherlock Holmes," Watson introduced me.

"You're joking," one of the three choked. "The _detective_? Here?"

The wizard knew who I was. I felt famous.

"There was...a mild irritation on the Way here, and one way or another he insisted on coming," Watson replied absent-mindedly, checking his pocket-watch. "What time is it?"

"Noon sharp," the woman replied.

"One hour," Watson shook his head. "Thank you. I have an urgent message to deliver to Wizard Langtry from his London contact. Where in the Halls may I find him?"

"He would be in the Senior Council's chambers," the woman replied. "What should we do with your companion? It seems ill-advised to allow a mortal free reign within the Hidden Halls."

"Could he follow me? He's the younger brother of the London contact," Watson asked.

"If he passes through the Wardhounds, he's welcome to it." one of the men shrugged.

I raised my eyebrows but said nothing, following Watson as he slowly trudged through the long hallways where the walls were now filled with carvings resembling those figures on the Bayeux Tapestry, and a few unintelligible symbols that vaguely resembled what Watson painted behind the cellar door before he permanently sealed the cursed thing, here, there, and everywhere. Every two hundred yards or so, we would walk through metal gates manned by more grey-cloaked figures and two three-foot tall statues that resembled Chinese temple dog statues I had seen during my Hiatus trip to Lhassa. Watson exchanged polite words with each figure until the last checkpoint, where he pulled out a folded map and began squinting at it before moving. Our footsteps echoed through the lonely tunnels, empty and eerie as we made our way to wherever Langtry was hiding.

We passed through mostly empty barracks to stone hallways and yet more checkpoints, up to a hall the size of a ballroom that would not look out of place at Versailles. White marble flooring with swirls of gold matched with elegant white marble columns, a natural waterfall at the far wall, into a pool around which grew a plethora of plants into a complex little garden that by all rights should not be possible here. Golden light that poured from crystals in the ceiling illuminated the hall, much like sunlight, the sound of wind chimes accompanied by birdsong completing the image and impression of complete peace and luxury. I knew hotels in the Isle of Wight which would kill to have such interior decorating. A number of expensive yet comfortable-looking pieces of furniture was spaced in and near the garden, and as we walked in, I made out a small table covered with an eclectic buffet of foods, with a wet bar set next to it, ready to protect from dehydration. Near the buffet table stood my least and most favourite wizards besides Watson whom I had ever met.

Arthur Langtry was the first wizard other than Watson I had ever met. He epitomised everything about the traditional Merlin, tall, regal, long white hair and long white beard to match, wearing a blue robe with a silver circlet around his brow. On his arm leaned a staff of pure white wood. Ebenazar McCoy was a short, balding American, whatever patches of his hair left was black flecked with more grey, and dressed in tough work pants and army boots matched with a chequered shirt, holding a six-foot tall staff of dark oak. They contrasted each other like oil and water, but I confess that I liked McCoy more. Langtry just struck me as resembling my brother more; a slippery eel and a manipulating bastard.

Langtry's eyes widened as they took in the sight of us walking towards them. "What are you doing here?" he asked in a polite tone. Ah; he was speaking Mycroftese. It translated pretty much to _how the hell did you get in? _I smirked,which in Mycroftese translated to _It's my secret_. He shrugged in reply. _I don't care. _Further subtext includes _because you are insignificant, and if you try anything I will crush you like the insect I see you as. _I sniffed experimentally. _Bring it on._

"Nice to see you," McCoy grunted at us, his eyes scanning Watson, who squirmed uncomfortably. "Feel any urge to commit great evil lately?"

"Not as yet, but if I did, I will be sure to send advance notice," Watson replied dryly. "We have a situation."

"What now?" McCoy asked, without any tact.

"On the thirtieth of June of this year, at nine eleven in the morning, an arrest warrant was attempted to be registered from the Berkshire constabulary for the arrest of Lara Romany, nee Raith, for the murder of Jacques Romany." Watson dictated flatly. "Lara Raith has contacted Holmes here to help clear her name."

"The White King's right hand is in England?" Langtry sounded affronted.

"A vampire is convicted of _murder_?" McCoy asked at the same moment, his voice curious.

"Husband was poisoned to death," I conformed, feeling oddly left out. "Last known person with heart medicine was her."

"Then it's not the vampire," both wizards replied at the same time, before glaring at each other.

I looked at Watson. "Could you explain?"

"Erm...Madam Raith could have just fed on him until he died, and it would've been put down to medical causes, not poison him and become the obvious suspect," Watson shrugged. "Also, the White Court is famous for acting through cat's paws. Layers within layers, indirect action, that kind. She would have gotten an outside agent to act for her if she wanted to kill her husband, not kill him directly. It's completely against the nature of a White Court vampire."

"Unfortunately, the police do not think so," I pointed out. "She would be arrested and hung."

"She'd killed many innocent people over the centuries; it just means one less of the White Court around," Langtry replied dismissively.

McCoy shrugged. "It's up to you how you want to act. Mr. Holmes...no, no," he said out of thin air. "Doctor, I guess you know the danger about the White Court."

"I do," Watson replied. "But I am quite confused about the White Court's weakness...how are we supposed to use love against a White Court vampire? Do we hug them?"

"If you don't have anything to do with love, then just try not to get into skin contact with any of them." Langtry replied. I frowned at this revelation; love was that particular anthrophage's weakness? How...quaint.

"Oh yes, I do think I've managed to enchant the coat," Watson said as he shrugged off his waistcoat, which I recognised as the one that he had enchanted. "So far, it's survived a Webley and a dagger."

Langtry held it and hefted it as if testing its weight. Then, flames erupted from his hands and engulfed the coat, which remained steadfastly intact even in the midst of fire. He examined it for a while, then sniffed as the flames died down and threw it back to Watson.

"Wear it. We'll try it out on the field."

There was a rumble that echoed about the hall right there and then.

Watson looked plenty sheepish as he admitted: "Is there any lunch?"

* * *

I stared, open-mouthed as the last stone impacted off the dome of light that acted as a shield Watson had conjured, as the wizard rained rocks upon him. If this was how wizards were taught how to conjure shields, I have a pretty good idea why there were so few wizards I had seen so far. They were all crushed under heavy rocks that their shields couldn't deflect in time.

"Pain is a good motivator. You learn fast." Langtry grunted as the next rock shower rained down. "Good on the offensive but not the defensive. This is one vital skill almost all wizards have in their arsenal; you need to work on it. Only when you've learnt basic skills and control, then will you graduate out of apprenticeship."

Galling, but true. My Watson was now apprenticed under the only other wizard in London, apparently on behalf of my brother and for Langtry's convenience-the latter spends so much time in Edinburgh, London really needs more wizardly help- but so far he had not complained. Really, the man had no limits.

Only after the impact of the last rock that Watson sank to his knees, sweating from the effort and will needed and panting heavily. Langtry's features softened. "You've made a game effort, good. So far, you've demonstrated admirably at evocation and defensive magic, passable thaumaturgy, and good ritual skill. However, you lack emotional control for summoning. Not only that, but also the fine, precise control needed for illusion magic. Other than those, you've progressed admirably in six months what most would have taken years to perfect. I think right now you're in the top five percentile. One more year and we see if you can make Council."

Ah, yes. The details of the deal between Mycroft and Langtry were unclear at best, but the precis was that Langtry trained Watson so that London would not be without a wizard in his absence, and not only does Mycroft keep cleaning up, but it also helps his status as part of the Senior Council. Exactly which part, I do not know, but I have my suspicions.

Watson didn't even make the effort to glare as I lifted him up with some difficulty, one arm of his slung around my neck. "How will you open the Ways like this, old chap?" I murmured.

"Stop by the buffet table on the way," Langtry called after us.

After eating what must have been half the table, Watson had indeed recovered enough to get us back safely. Upon moving from the green fields to the dreary London alley, I cared not that my coat was now spattered with some jelly-like material, or that I had just passed from one dimension to another; arm in arm, we walked back to our humble abode to face the problem at hand.

* * *

_**I get the feeling that my chapters are getting longer. Do you?**_


	5. Love even in danger

_**Sorry, I'm a bit busy right now, adjusting to school life and all that jazz. Nevertheless, the next chapter is in the works...if only it could come out without kicking and screaming.**_

_**Love. It warps our senses, twists our souls, can take us past hope, past cure, past help. I know about love. Its suffering, its anguish, its pain. Heaven makes means to kill our joy with **__**love. And yet we must have it any cost.**_

_**~LUCIEN LACROIX, **__**Forever Knight**__**, "Last Knight" (1996)**_

* * *

_**IV: Love even in danger**_

**Watson**

The morning of the second of July in Baker Street saw a flurry of packing from the occupants of 221B Baker Street. Holmes was asking why couldn't I open a Way there which resulted in my explanation that magic was not a panacea but a dangerous tool in the wrong hands and thus wizards should not abuse their power just to save a few cents and some time, etcetera in the way that makes one very reluctant to argue against. Holmes had sulked throughout the trip, and this was the man entrusted to make sure I didn't give in to the influence of the phantom in my mind.

Last year, I had picked up an old Roman denarius at a crime scene with Holmes. It was a split second decision, although admittedly not one of my better ones. Knowing that it was a container for a being responsible for turning people into real monsters, I could not just stand aside and watch Holmes unwittingly expose himself to the demon; the cocaine was bad enough without any worse influence, and Sherlock Holmes under the control of a fallen angel was a disaster of epic proportions waiting to happen. He already was an epic disaster without all the power and insanity and moral ignorance the fallen angel would bring. I had taken the coin and buried it in the cellar, guarded with several wards and under about six feet of earth and concrete, trapped in a box of iron, in a bid to seal it from the world and me. Unfortunately, the Fallen Lupiel was stronger than first thought, as the mark of Lupiel on my arm symbolized, even when by all rights I should have been free from it's influence. Much later, upon intentionally using the Hellfire that had somehow made its way into my magic to save Holmes by roasting a vampire (yes really), I received consciously a shadow of the Fallen in my mind that took the form of a sentient illusion.

Given the choice, I would have done it again, no questions asked, but sometimes, after a particularly painful nightmare from the Battle of Maiwand, I would lie in bed, watching the ceiling, every light source ablaze and yet unable to chase the darkness away. I had been locked in the dark with vampires of the Black Court once, and those nightmares continue to haunt me in time to the Fallen's whispers of promise.

They killed children in front of me.

I couldn't do anything.

The vampires had died a fiery death, but then, I would remember that if I did agree to Lupiel's offer, I would become more and more dependent upon it. The holders of one of thirty Blackened Denarii were effectively immortal and a power on their own. With the fallen angel as support, I could protect this city and with it Holmes, for potentially centuries, all at the cost of my soul.

And then, I would remember what the vampires would have done with Lupiel's coin, how many would have died, and that the very same potential for epic disaster now rested with me.

I winced as my left shoulder, the one bearing the sigil of Lupiel, throbbed as a phantom laugh echoed through my ears and my skin crawled.

Holmes was alert in an instant, sulk replaced with concern as stormy-grey eyes studied my self, hand straying to his cane and hair-trigger. It was for comfort, I guessed; against one of the true Knights of the Blackened Denarii, neither bullet nor blade could easily kill. It was the principle of the thing, and one that I did not begrudge him. After all, if vampires capable of throwing an entire carriage with one arm were scared of the coin, then there was a very, very good reason to be scared of anyone who possesses the coin.

"Shut up," I firmly voiced out to no one in particular, earning me some very strange looks in the process from several fellow passengers. Holmes acted affronted and the looks ceased as the rest of the passengers assumed that I was berating my friend for some offensive words. Really, Holmes was right; people are really not observant enough to recognize a threat when they see it. If anyone had truly recognized the runes on my walking cane as those meant to facilitate transfer of energy, they would have done their utmost to put me away. As it was, I was seen as a gentleman with odd taste in decoration, and the flickering light was put down to a malfunction.

We were given a first-class compartment by the train company, in thanks for Holmes' involvement in a few cases of sabotage of their engines. I wonder if they had ever figured out that gremlins were the cause of sabotage. Probably not; Holmes wouldn't tell the company people that the reason for the abrupt stopping of sabotage was due to the sweet left by a conductor in the know at the train-yard every night. He also would conveniently omit to mention that the same conductor had demanded that the train engines be fitted with an iron frame to keep gremlins at bay.

"I'm fine, Holmes," I replied, hopefully assuring, as I morosely began toying with my cane. I hardly ever went anywhere without the cane; I could walk without it, but it was a question of defence. My cane served me as a wizard's staff and it contained an iron sword as well in the event that a sharp physical defence was needed. Given the situations we often found ourselves in, I would rather bring the cane and be mocked rather than _not_ bring it and be killed.

Plus, in a pinch, I could brain someone with it. It was quite a reassuring thought.

I gave up toying with it as sparks flew from the cane end and settled back, attempting to ignore Lupiel's irritating whispers while watching Holmes quietly watch the countryside pass as the train trundled towards Berkshire. It was peaceful, quiet, something that London never was.

"_A policeman's lot is not a happy one,_

_oh, when constabulary's duty to be done, to be done,_

_A policeman's lot is not a happy one, a happy one..._" I began to drown out the renewed whispers with some humming, but my observant friend nevertheless noticed my change in habit.

"Watson," said he, wearing a expression reserved for the rare occasion I dragged him to see anything by Gilbert and Sullivan. "Do tell me, where has your grand gift of silence went?"

"It went with the fallen angel in my head singing," I muttered dryly. Holmes looked disturbed, either by my singing or Luppy's singing, I don't know.

_Since when have I merited that nickname, my host?_ a voice echoed in my head. I thought very firmly at sealing it and the singing abruptly cut off. Holmes was alert again at my sound of relief but relaxed as I sank back into my seat. We thus spent the rest of the trip in such companionable silence.

* * *

**Holmes**

Watson became slightly twitchier as we disembarked the train at the Berkshire station, wincing slightly as we made our way from the platform. I would have concluded that his leg was causing him problems, but the sunny weather made that rather unlikely. Therefore, I could only conclude that the cause of his wincing was due to the rather unwelcome guest in his mind. I would have not believed it possible earlier, but after going through quite a number of _...altercations_ with the supernatural forces of London, I did believe in the existence of something that I could not see influencing Watson.

"Faeries, south...Summerfae mostly," Watson muttered to himself as he hauled his small valise with him. "Methanol, needles, catgut, salt, iron, chalk, chocolate..."

Fine, perhaps Watson has become more...eccentric ever since that time.

"Mr. Holmes?" A voice questioned, and I turned to see a rather young man, blond, six feet, blue eyes, dressed in gardening tweeds, soil on shoes and knees, spends a lot of time outdoors then... "I am James Trent, the grounds-keeper of The Olive Branch, and I was supposed to transport you and Doctor Watson on Madame's orders?"

"Ah, yes, thank you," I said, following him with Watson right behind me, valises in hand. We were getting some very strange looks from the station-master and the guard, so I voiced my concern.

"Ah, yes, Madam had mentioned to her maid, Jeanette, that Mr. Holmes was coming on her request to investigate the Master's murder. And then, somehow or another, the news had spread throughout the village and thus..." He shrugged. Moderately well-educated, but rather inarticulate; nervous disposition then.

"Do you think the mistress of the house did it, then?" I commented.

"No, well...the household all knew of the master's heart problem, so the mistress actually suggested that they come down to Combe, but well, he was a bit sickly, even for his size," Trent shrugged. "Bit of a shame for such a woman to be tied down by a husband that must've been about ten years older than her, really..."

Watson stifled a slight snicker as the grounds-keeper took our valises to store on top of the dog-trap that Miss Raith had so kindly sent to get us to the estate. Judging that there was no other man about, I could only conclude that the grounds-keeper must have driven here on the dog-trap, therefore, I had plenty of time to ask what was so funny.

Upon my asking, Watson rummaged through his pockets (I occasionally suspect that the tendency to squirrel things away into the coat like a pack-rat was a familial trait, but having never met any kith or kin of my Boswell, I could hardly prove it) to produce a page from a loose manuscript. The paper showed a passable reproduction of a portrait that I judged to be done in the style of Allan Ramsay, showing a family of a patriarch surrounded by his daughters, sons and brothers, I guessed; every single person shared pale skin, black hair, and astounding beauty like Miss Raith.

The resemblance was uncanny, to say the least.

"House Raith, right here, dated seventeen fifty," Watson pointed towards a woman with the exact same visage of Miss Raith, right down to the arrogant smirk and stormy-grey eyes she shared with the patriarch. "The White Council managed to get a copy before the original was sealed in Raith's possession. I got this from a book about the White Court. It's one of a few hanging around."

"But, that would mean..." I frowned at the implication.

"Holmes, the White Court can live for centuries," Watson patiently reminded me. "The White King's been around for a damn long time, such that the Court's language is Ancient Etruscan. By my reckoning, Madam Raith's been around for possibly three centuries."

I could now see the joke coming from Trent's comment.

Therefore, when we finally arrived at the estate, and Trent asked me if I have heard a dog barking, as the only canine within the parish was at the church, I strongly denied ever having heard it.

* * *

**Watson**

I had only the merest inkling of the White Court's fortunes, gleaned from manuscripts here and there and everywhere. After all, I do think that it doesn't take a genius to get rich after about a few centuries or millennia of trading. Therefore, I had already fixed the idea of The Olive Branch in my head as something new or Georgian or Queen Anne.

The Olive Branch turned out to be a wide mansion built in the Tudor style with distinctive red bricks, with wings added possibly during the time of Queen Anne, understated, elegant, unfortified yet solid, as if it were a fortress masquerading as a mansion. It overlooked low-lying gardens all around, a tactic which I recognised as something from Norman times; never let your enemies sneak up on you. It had the feel of something that, once properly established, could weather all changes, stand against time, and even in a thousand years, it would still be there, waiting faithfully. Either that or its bones could be there, exposed to the wind, generally broken and brittle with age but still standing firm. Indeed, it made quite a statement. A rather appropriate apology, I thought, if Miss Raith's story concerning the Olive Branch's ownership was true.

Emphasis on _if;_ As a vampire of the White Court, Lara Raith was a master at manipulation, having probably centuries of manipulating cat's paws, being powerful and beautiful and desirable and could probably control even Holmes without his knowledge. Already she had proven her intelligence by spreading the knowledge that a famous detective was coming down from London to investigate the case. With some further consideration of Holmes' record, the layman would realise that a guilty woman would not call upon England's greatest detective if she were truly guilty and thus her innocence would be proved, and that Holmes' presence alone would already assure the credibility of the investigation's result. She probably wrote the rules that would be recorded by Machiavelli himself. If she went up against the Italian master manipulator, my heart would go out to the poor naïve man.

Yes, Lara Raith could have killed her husband and still drink coffee over his corpse. Yes, Lara Raith was like every single monster hiding in the shadows in the city. Yes, Lara Raith had killed before, both deliberately and in self-defence, and she didn't care if one more had to die so that she could keep on living her extremely long, potentially immortal, life.

However, Holmes was convinced that this particular murder, she didn't do it.

Well...that was quite...unusual. Insane. Just..._argh._ There are no words to explain the irony of the situation without not only driving me insane, but the listener as well.

Which is why I am not the detective of our partnership. It is a role that requires intelligence such that almost all surrounding people are seen as idiots. It is a role I would never take in an entire lifetime.

* * *

**Holmes**

Watson is beautifully and perfectly balanced. In him, sanity is personified. Do you realize what that means to me? When the criminal sets out to do a crime, his first effort is to deceive the normal man. There is probably no such thing actually - it is a mathematical abstraction. But he come as near to realizing it as is possible...how does this profit me? As in a mirror I see reflected in his mind exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. That is terrifically helpful and suggestive.

Or rather, he was beautifully and perfectly balanced. I think that repeated exposure to the seedy underbelly of London civilisation along with more exposure to even seedier shadows of said underbelly would do that to almost any human being. When I factor those in, I can almost convince myself that Watson's mind had remained balanced throughout all the events that our first meeting at St Bart's in 1881 and that my friend had not been driven insane, either by association with me or association with...others like him. He had taken to sneaking out occasionally to a tavern in Tottenham Court Road, but the exact path eludes me still; I cannot find any soil markings or dirt that would indicate the method of transport. If he answers me one more time with the extremely ambiguous answer of 'magic', I may have to do something drastic.

As it were, I was already doing something drastic, if Trent's expression of utmost shock was anything to go by. Miss Raith was unfortunately in the parish, having to keep up the pretence of Christianity here, otherwise I would have been glad to see her shaken, if for only a moment.

It was a testament to almost daily exposure to my habits that Watson did no more than shrug as I crawled out from under the bed in which the late Mr. Romany expired, grinning, I believe Mycroft has described it once, like a loon. "Look, Watson! The maid apparently has not cleaned under the bed for three days."

"Orders of the local Constable, Mr. Holmes," Trent replied. "The constable ordered the scene preserved in case of any overlooked evidence."

"Well, at least he knows that much,which would indicate that at the very least he has a minimum modicum of intelligence. However, that would not explain how we are here, and that you have not stopped us." I said, now eyeing the grounds-keeper with some distaste.

Trent coloured immediately. "It was...on the orders...of Madam," he replied, shifting his weight nervously from left to right foot, not meeting my eye.

"Very well," I shrugged. "Anyway, I have found this."

I held up my prize, the dull gleam of rose-gold, extremely high quality if I was not wrong, lighting up the room with a slight brilliance that showed the allure of the precious metal that man have lusted over for centuries. The inside of the ring was carved, and I read the minuscule carving to the others: "Lara Romany, till death do us part."

"Why, that is the master's wedding ring!" Trent exclaimed in some shock. "It would never have left the master's finger, so how did it end up there?"

"I would not know, but I will keep this to ask your mistress about later," I firmly replied, pocketing the ring. "For now, I take it that the whole household, with you being the sole exception of you and your father the butler, are out?"

"No, Miss Butler is in the study, sifting through the master's papers." Apparently, Trent had quite a dislike for this Gladys Butler, if his tone turned to such hostility upon even the merest mention of the secretary. "Would you like me to show you the way?"

"If you please," I replied, watching Watson out of my peripheral vision as I examined the surroundings. It was opulent, a wide space with only a four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, a reading lamp and bedside table, a dresser with chair, and a vase of wilting flowers upon the chest of drawers, probably local. I turned to the dresser, examining the woodwork. "Where was the medicine kept?" I asked, still deeply interested in the wood.

"Here," Trent motioned towards the locked drawer of the dresser. Extremely practical; it limited the number of people who have access to the medicine in question.

"Who has access to the key to the dresser?" I asked, examining the lock. There were scratches around the keyhole that had ben made recently, I noted, from the scraping of the key, which showed that the last person was in a great hurry.

"The master, the madam, my father, the butler, and the secretary." Trent rattled off, his face changing slightly upon the word 'madam' that I half-thought that he had an infatuation upon the mistress of the house. It would not be the first time a servant had fallen in love with the masters. Perhaps Miss Raith was working with Trent to cover up her part in the husband's murder? After all, affairs was one of the main reasons of husband-wife murders. However, there still wasn't enough data to justify te theory. "However, the Berkshire constables have already stated that there were no scrapes on the inside of the keyhole, so no lock-picks were used, and thus it could only be one of the key-holders."

"The constable is correct, or has failed to note that anyone could have stolen the key to open the drawer." I informed them. "Either way, there is a promising talent amongst the London police. It is so sad that he would spend his time in Berkshire when he could command so much more in London. Who was the constable in charge?"

"Erm, it was Constable Baynes, but the case was soon taken over by Inspector Carson." Trent replied.

"I wish him luck then," I said, standing up. "Please, lead the way to Miss Butler. I would like to see the secretary for myself."

* * *

I would admit that my first impression of Miss Butler was one of a middle-aged dragon. It is demeaning, I know, but nevertheless true. Having heard the language the woman had used, and how she had accused her mistress, and of Trent's hostility, I had almost pictured a figure very much similar to some nasty version of Mrs. Hudson.

This is the very reason one should never theorise before one has data. Miss Butler turned out to be a Titian-haired woman in her late twenties to early thirties, freshly turned out and as she glided over the soft carpet of the study towards us, the smile on her face gave rise to dimples that gave her face a more mobile look than Lara Raith's poker face. Her cheeks were freckled, but rather than obscuring her beauty, this gave her a naïve look that made her look younger. She was slightly taller than average, about five foot six I daresay, and slightly wider as well, which would not have missed most men, unless Miss Raith were to stand next to her, and then the contrast would stand out, much like a duckling and the swan. I began to guess at the motives of Miss Butler for doing something such as to accuse her employer; really, it would not do well for her future prospects.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" she had a Cornwall accent about her voice, and as I shook her proffered hand I felt her firm grip, indicating quite significant hand strength and thus well-developed hand muscles and thus she had a lot of practice writing. "Your description is well-circulated about the country; I highly doubt anyone who reads the Strand could not recognise you."

Refraining the urge to roll my eyes heavenwards and berate Watson, I shot Watson a dirty glare that apparently wasn't lost on the other occupants as well. "Thank you. Yes, I seem to find that the Strand seems to dog me wherever I go. It is actually quite inimical to one's health to be recognised for dangerous exploits, really. My friend and colleague, Doctor Watson." As the two shook hands, a strange look came over Miss Butler's face, one of incredulous shock, with Watson's features bearing a similar expression.

"I presume that you are here to enquire about Mr. Romany's death," Miss Butler stated. "Well then, you have little work to do. The culprit would obviously be Madam Raith."

"Well now, the law presumes a person innocent until proven guilty," I pointed out. "Why would you be so sure that Madam Raith did it?"

"Mr. Romany had an argument with her the night before," Miss Butler replied defensively, "and she was the last one who touched that medicine." Aha, she was lying. About what, I do not know. "The next day, Mr. Romany dies, and she...that...that... woman inherits Mr. Romany's money. If not her, then who?"

"Miss Butler!" Trent exclaimed in shock. "Why would you accuse Madam of murdering the master? Didn't she give you a roof over your head, an education, a job?"

"I am merely stating my opinion, Mr. Trent, and I do not need your input," Miss Butler argued coldly. "She is what she is; a adulterous woman. But of course, you knew that as well, right, Mr. Trent?"

James Trent's face had blanched to a shade whiter than paper, but before he could form a coherent sentence, Watson laid a hand on his shoulder. "I think," he murmured, "that we should interview Miss Butler without any outside interference."

So saying, my Watson guided the spluttering grounds-keeper out of the room. Upon the sound of the door closing and the lock's click, I was about to ask what was going on, but Miss Butler beat me to it.

"Who are you?" she asked, pointing to Watson.

* * *

_**And that is the fourth chapter. I love cliffhangers; people seem to always want to know what happens after. This is extremely helpful to my**__** ratings.**_


	6. Love is Often unreasonable

_**I was reviewing a few of the reviews on Sympathy, and I realised that an anonymous reviewer had out in a request for werewolves in this story, Without. Sadly for sjl, werewolves are not involved in this story's construction. However, I am intending to place a loup-garou (sort of a super-werewolf that can only be destroyed by a weapon of inherited silver) running amok in Paris in the fifth story, The Once and Future Thing. **_

_**Yes, for those uninformed, we (as in me and Ches) are branching out to a series! The Watson Chronicles are now expanding themselves! A full list is placed on my profile. Please vote on the profile poll as well if you wish me to continue writing.**_

_**LLS & CHES**_

* * *

_**It is remarkable how similar the pattern of love is to the pattern of insanity.**_

_**~MEROVINGIAN, **____**The Matrix Revolutions**__** (2003)**_

* * *

_**V: Love is often unreasonable**_

**Watson**

"Small talent," I muttered to my friend. "Probably has an eidetic memory. Hedge magi, doesn't realise it, or she would have known." He relaxed almost immediately. I stepped forward. "Doctor Watson, at your service, Miss Butler." I motioned to the smaller desk that stood beside the large mahogany affair that I presume belonged to the late Mr Romany. It certainly looked it; it was clean and well-cared for although old, and had quite the homely feel, much like Miss Butler.

"Who are you?" she repeated. "Why do your hands feel so..."

"Medical condition," I explained, willing my emotions to remain calm. I couldn't break the Third Law, which specifically stated that I was not to invade another's mind, but then, if I remain angry, the air would most likely heat up, which would be odd, which would make Miss Butler more nervous, which would be apt to drive her to a form of hysteria, which would not be beneficial to either Holmes's or my questioning. She was not even a hedge magi, let alone a wizard (yes, there are female wizards. The word 'witch' was replaced due to this little this called Exodus 22:18; Suffer not a witch to live) "I have this thing about electricity that people always seem put off by...it's really not good for a doctor's practice..."

She relaxed slightly at my explanation, as most latent talents who didn't know about our world were wont to do. I think it had something to do with how people were taught that everything was reasonable and how everything could be explained with science as the new God.

I do not question what works. Or, as the Americans say it, if it is not broken, why fix it?

"Well, now, Miss Butler," Holmes exclaimed, moving past her to sit on the table. I rolled my eyes heavenward at his juvenile behaviour before moving towards my coat pocket for my notebook and pencil. Holmes took his own notes, but he frequently stole mine, claiming that I took better notes than he could ever make. Given that Holmes's harried scrawl was about as readable as the average London doctor's notes, a feat that I would have scarcely believed possible until I had gone through his notes, I could see why. It was one of the constants that even our new mix of cases haven't changed, and, if Holmes noticed several formulae and words commenting on magic on the margins, he never said anything about it. "Do tell us about the circumstances in which poor Mr Romany died."

"It was on the evening of the twenty-sixth that Mr Romany had an argument with her." The very way she said the last word had barely concealed hostility behind it. "About her and her adulterous ways, about how she couldn't leave any man alone for more than three seconds, about how she'd always had to have every man dancing attendance on her..."

I wondered if perhaps Jacques Romany had known exactly what his wife was. Perhaps it was an in-built instinct to protect fellow human beings from the really terrifyingly beautiful monster that no one realised was there. I began to respect the dead man slightly more.

"It continued until around eleven, when Mr Romany had to take his medicine or suffer an attack." Her face creased in sympathy and slight pain. "Somehow, they managed to make up to each other...such that most of the household could hear it."

I coughed discreetly, perfectly aware just exactly how married couples made up. I was married once, after all. They kiss, make up and make love, both metaphorically and literally.

Holmes's expression was one of barely concealed chagrin that only I and Mycroft Holmes could ever hope to decipher. To the acquaintance, it would have merely seemed impassive. "Was such intense...arguments common between Mr and Mrs Romany?"

"Yes, an average of once a month. Nothing to set one's watch by, but rather regular with quite a margin of error." Her expression indicated that it was rather regular for any proper Englishman or woman.

"I see. Do continue, please."

"At midnight, I heard footsteps from the floor above, where Mr Romany's room would be, exiting the room, and walking off. I went to sleep soon after, and I woke up at around six. After settling my toilette and breaking fast, at seven sharp I went to Mr Romany's room with Trevor so as to carry out any morning instructions that Mr Romany might have had, but then, when we found him, he was...cold...and not moving at all, and..." from here, she broke out into quiet sobs, shaking as she sank onto her desk, uncaring about propriety. Holmes looked panicked for a moment, I noted, as I went to her side, handkerchief at the ready.

"Mr Romany must have been a good employer," I commented as I handed her my handkerchief. Holmes still looked slightly discomfited from the lady's crying, something which I attributed to his intense disinterest in women or rather that women existed in a plane far beyond the comprehension of his supreme logic. It was nice to know that occasionally, there were some things that even the great Sherlock Holmes was at a loss to explain.

Such as magic. Or women.

We make up for each other. It's a...working friendship. Of sorts. I patch him up on his cases, act as a sounding board, note-taker, general weapon-holder, general cavalry. He brings me into cases involving danger, allows me to never know this thing called monotony, and acted as a general guinea pig for one of my _accidents._

"Y-yes," she sniffed, before blowing her nose into my handkerchief. "Why did he die so soon?"

Somehow, my eyes flew to Holmes, who was decidedly taking too much interest in the mahogany desk's grain to actually be seeing the desk itself. At the very least, she had the confirmation of his demise, and not the vague hope that he was somehow still alive. It was better than entertaining false hope for someone she cared about.

For there was no other was to describe it, the intuition that Miss Gladys Butler had been in love with the late Mr Jacques Romany.

* * *

**Holmes**

We watched as Miss Butler made her way out of the study after our little interview to call the butler. I had resolved to request for a map of the Olive Branch, or at least the general layout of the place, and surely there was no other person to ask than the manager of the entire cleaning staff of the house. However, Miss Butler certainly had a sorrowful air around her, one that was echoed in almost every part of the place. Generally, one looks at the reactions of the servants in order to gauge how well-liked the master of the house was. If the echoed sorrow was anything to go by, Mr Romany was indeed a man well-loved by his employees, more so than the late Honourable Ronald Adair who died by the hand of Colonel Moran five years ago.

"She was in love with him," Watson murmured, sympathetically. I made an inarticulate noise that was mostly aimed at the foolishness of woman, but could have been interpreted as sympathy or as pity. Despite what many think, the two are not mutually exclusive of each other. I ignored the look Watson shot as, confound the fellow's perception, he managed to decipher the true meaning of the sound.

"I don't need advice," Watson declared, before he realised what he had said, if the widened eyes were any reaction. Immediately, my irritation turned to concern. "Are you alright, my boy?"

"Yes," Watson replied wearily. "I will be, at any rate, once this shadow manages to stop going on about...things. Embarrassing things. Things I would really rather not talk about."

The butler, Trevor came then, thus earning Watson a reprieve from my questions. From his face, whatever Lupiel must have said, or have been saying, was extremely suggestive to Watson, and therefore Watson would no doubt require all of his nerves to deal with both of us later.

* * *

**Watson**

Applied magic is nothing but energy and will. All the tools, the gewgaws - in a strict sense, they're absolutely unnecessary for magic. All you need is, at most, a simple drawn circle and everything else can be done through sheer mental effort.

The problem lies in the sheer complexity hidden in the phrase _mental_ _effort_ - adding 1+1 is a _mental_ _effort._ So is solving complex problems in advanced mathematics. Without so much as a pencil, which would be the preferred problem to do becomes glaringly obvious. Tossing around torrents of flame may look simple, but actually doing it requires the caster to focus intently on several things at once. It's like trying to sing a song by Gilbert and Sullivan, while visualizing a complex structure, as you play a sonata on the piano. It can be done - with enough practice. But really, it's so much easier to visit the theatre, throw down a photo, and slap some Beethoven on the gramophone. Magically, it's exactly the same with wizards and their foci. Yes, it is easier to conjure flame with foci. Nevertheless, with enough will and concentration, I could perform magic without them, just like now.

To seal the voice of the Fallen within my head, which was currently giving a disturbingly passable parody of _H.M.S. Pinafore, _I visualised with some effort a large, black cube with an open top, and Lupiel as the last form in which he had appeared as an illusion, that of a large black wolf certainly not native to any part of Britain, and then mentally visualised stuffing the large wolf in the box, sealing it, leaving holes in the lid, before shoving the box into some dark, shadowy recess of the attic of my mind, mentally thanking Holmes for the simile he had given so long ago. The singing stopped, though for how long before the increasingly persuasive presence made it out was up for debate.

Having stoppered the disruptive, unwelcome presence for now, I began to note as Holmes did what he was good at. Yes, the case at hand. No ghosts in hospitals waiting for babies to die. No ghouls raiding the nearest crypts for flesh of either ripped fresh from the still screaming prey or downright disgustingly dug out of the coffin. Yes, I am in the background, and Holmes is in centre stage, at it was before, as it would be if I can help it, and as it will be for the forseeable future, no gremlins eating out the telephone wires...come to think of it, London has an abnormally high infestation of faeries despite the amount of iron hanging around...

I abruptly cut my train of thought and focused on the butler. Yes, the butler was boring, but at least the butler seemed normal. No faerie or demon or...

I need to visit the theatre more. Or read more Clark Russell. Either one; I was not too picky about distractions from the more unwelcome side of my new life.

Come to think of it, neither was Holmes.

"Mr Trevor, was it?" Holmes began.

"Yes, sir."

"I would appreciate if you would tell us what happened on the night of your late master's death."

"Do ask your questions and I will do my best to answer, sir."

"Very well, then," Holmes replied in a supercilious tone. I do not know what most people would think of Trevor at this, but what I _did_ know was that Sherlock Holmes was not one given to asking mundane questions like most of Scotland Yard or the Sphinx of ancient Egyptian tales, preferring instead to let the witnesses spin their own tale. He says that when they talk, there is a much greater chance of tripping up over their own lies. I think that Sherlock Holmes is a man afraid of asking the wrong questions. After all, one could get at the truth, if only one asks the right questions. How many manage that feat, indeed, how many times even Sherlock Holmes manage that, is questionable.

"Let us begin," my friend continues. "What medicine was the master of the house taking?"

"I am not too sure as to its exact term in medicine, Mr Holmes, but the chemist did mention that an overdose could lead to the heartbeat slowing down to potentially dangerous extremes when I collected it, hence I would guess that its purpose was to inhibit the heart from beating, sir."

Digitoxin or digoxin, I guessed. I would prescribe digoxin in the case of Mr Romany, but then, to each his own, and digitoxin had been shown as effective in the treatment of heart conditions.

"Really now? And how is the medicine administered?"

"By intravenous injection, sir, and the medicine administered usually by the madam or me, sir."

"Quite unusual. Is Mr Romany not in the habit of self-administration?"

"It is not in my position to speak of the master's and madam's," and here the butler turned a slight shade of red. "marital habits, sir."

Holmes coughed, although the benefits of long cohabitation with him has served such that I could tell that he was amused. "I see. Please tell me the chain of events that culminated into the death of Mr Romany, beginning from the evening of the twenty-sixth of June to the morning of the twenty-seventh."

"Well, the master and madam had retired to the library after dinner, and about an hour later as I was passing by the door towards the drawing room to start on polishing the silver, I heard them arguing, although I did not hear any distinct words, but it did sound quite heated. I did not hear from them again until eleven, when I heard the master's door open as I was passing the corridor on my way back to the quarters. I turned in soon after. The next morning I awoke at five and had breakfast ready in the parlour by six thirty, when Miss Butler came down, ate and left soon after on some writing to do in the study, if the direction she was walking in was any indication. The madam came down at seven, breakfasted and was detailing the orders for the day when Miss Butler's scream interrupted us..." here the butler's face twitched in a parody of heated feelings. "And we found the master in his bed...I touched him, he was so cold, and his expression was so peaceful. I called the police soon after while the missus brought both ladies down to the parlour for tea. They came, asked questions, and took the master's body away after that."

"And these is the chain of events?"

"Yes sir."

"The body was on its back, its eyes closed?"

"Yes sir. And his hands were placed over the bedclothes, as if in a coffin by itself, with a hypodermic syringe wedged in his right hand, sir."

"Very well then. Now that the master of the house is gone, how are your employment prospects, Mr Trevor? After all, you do have a wife and a toddler to support."

His face instantly changed to an expression of extreme surprise. "Why, sir, how did you...?"

"A thought process involving your nicely pressed shirt and trousers, that bit of vomit on your collar that would be missed save for a sharp-eyed observer, the mark of a wedding ring on your left hand, and something to do about that darn on your trouser knees that I very much doubt could be achieved by any other than a careful seamstress. As much as I know, the village of Combe has a cobbler and a washerwoman, but the skill of the darn leaves me in doubt that any but a nimble-fingered woman with plenty of practice in darning could manage such an otherwise unnoticeable darn, and quite a few more lines of thought running tangentially from there." Holmes replied brusquely.

I looked extremely closely, but could not see any other mark of a darn save for a few wrinkles from where thread had pulled onto cloth.

The man recovered himself, still looking at Holmes in an expression of wonder. "Why, Mr Holmes, I have read your adventures to my child at night, but I have never seen anything like it! You are simply a wizard, Mr Holmes."

I could swear that Holmes's eyes were twinkling in the irony as those bright pupils passed in my direction. "Hardly. I am merely a man who has observed and deduced with his logical faculties. I leave the magic to my friend the Doctor here to write about. But on to the question, Mr Trevor."

Methinks the double-entendre in that statement was as thick as a lady's makeup, as I ruefully scratched out a formula in the notebook margins.

"Ah, the master's will has left us a tidy sum, and the madam has even advanced on all of us a bonus in light of the tragedy, enough for us to settle on a prime bit of estate here, Mr Holmes, so we'll be alright."

"So I can guess. Tell me, Trevor, was the master's body facing the left or the right when you rushed there?"

He looked surprised at such a question. To be frank, so did I.

"Why sir, he was facing the ceiling."

"I see. Offhand, how devoted would you say Mr Romany to be towards his wife?"

"Well, he was...fairly crazy about her, to be honest. Absolutely besotted. Whether the madam reciprocated...I cannot say."

"Thank you. Where would Mr Romany's body be situated now?"

"In the Reading morgue, I'd say."

"Thank you, Mr Trevor. Your information may help in solving the mystery that surrounds the death of the late Mr Romany. Come, Watson," he next said to me. "We must set off now to have any hopes of reaching Reading by the day."

"The madam has ordered that you be given free use of the carriage during your stay, Mr Holmes."

"I must remember to thank our hostess when we next meet then. Do send word to prepare it, Mr Trevor."

"I shall do so immediately, Mr Holmes."

"Thank you."

"What is your impression of this?" I asked Holmes as the carriage rattled, although we did not feel much of it, down the wide path towards the gate then.

"The mystery is clearing, Watson." He replied, languidly reclining upon the seat opposite mine. "I am more convinced than ever that Lara Raith, for all her faults in not having been born human, did not kill Jacques Romany."

My expression must have been clearer than I thought, for he then continued: "I will reveal all by the end, Watson, as you well know."

I did not know how to reply to that.

* * *

_**I sympathise with mystery writers here. Writing an eyewitness statement is so boring I want to tear my hair out. The devil is really in the details here. I want to throttle something fast, and not in a good way.**_

_**Rest assured that I am still continuing this. This is just too darn entertaining.  
**_

_**Please read, review and if possible, check my profile and vote on the poll!**_


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